Obligations
by World'sOnlyConsultingTimeLady
Summary: Wesley is important to Wilson, just not how he wants to be, not like her. A one-shot based on the hospital scene in 1x11. Unrequited Wesley/Wilson


He's sitting on the bench, staring into the juncture where floor meets wall, features downcast, ransacked by the events of the evening, and you want to reach out, want to help and comfort, but you don't have the right or the words or the ability.

You are his right-hand man, not his beloved—she's with the doctors, the people trying to pull her away from Death's cloying grasp. You know it's not your place to placate Wilson with empty platitudes. He doesn't need that from you, especially when everyone speaks to him in superficial grace or barely-tethered contempt. Wilson doesn't get honesty or truth or beauty with anyone but her, and it's not your place to sully her with words you cannot guarantee.

Still, you sit beside him, willing to offer silent comfort, but he demands knowledge of her condition—it's in his eyes, the way his features ripple with emotion and posture straightens in anticipation. You offer the information like he didn't all but beg you for it, like your heart didn't lurch at his reaction. You can't imagine him feeling anything so strongly for you, yet you can't help but wish, someday, that he'd look at you, _really_ look, and see beyond the practicality of your presence, the linguistic benefits and façade and stealth you provide, see the reasons for your incessant devotion.

But he never will; you've kept it concealed well, too well. Wilson wouldn't like emotional attachment, and he would dispose of your inconvenience one way or another. In the end, it's not death or apathy or silence you fear: it is the look in his eyes should he discover, the way dynamics would shift until he rid himself of your weakness.

You offer him coffee silently, and he turns down the full cup. You hold it gingerly in your hands, forcing yourself to watch whips of steam twirl lazily into the air instead of Wilson's discomposure, and you force yourself not to wrinkle your nose in disdain at the scent of the dark beverage.

You've never liked coffee.

It comes as a shock to you when Wilson does break, when he talks of her completing him (and you try not to show how that hurts you; how you've always worked hard so that he wouldn't feel pain, wouldn't be inconvenienced), when he places blame on himself (it was your job to protect his heart, ultimately; no one else's), when he cracks and crumbles, when he voices his violent rage, and you're the calm in his storm, the rational voice that tethers him to sanity and brings reassurance and comfort better than most could.

Internally, you're seething. You're furious with her almost dying, furious with her almost living, furious because someone shoved Wilson into a painful situation, made him vulnerable, and you're fuming at anything and everything—even Wilson; you curse his ignorance, his apathy, his tolerance, whatever keeps him from relieving you of your silent agony. What had Vanessa done to earn such a man's adoration? She hadn't killed for him, hadn't served or fought or spoke or arranged or ruled for Wilson like he; she hadn't the knowledge or trust you worked, slaved, for years to earn. Yet she became his everything.

You want him to notice your turmoil. You want to tell him; the words linger on your lips like corpses your voice will never resurrect.

But your emotions will remain undetected, buried beneath the surface; you cannot show your weakness

He breaks the silence by speaking of wanting and desire, and you want to scream, want to beg and plead for some semblance of what you desire, but you know you cannot, and you find yourself defending the woman you envy most in all the world. You play devil's advocate like an angel, and all the while you find yourself mourning the opportunity to have Wilson to yourself again.

You loathe the sadness that crept into your voice without permission, and you loathe his immediate misinterpretation, his belief that it is concern for _her_.

"Thank you," he says, stumbling over his words like you imagine you would were you speaking honestly with him about your affections, and you can only smile and nod as his voice breaks, quivering, and his eyes, darkened with emotion, flicker from your face to your surroundings.

Your hands twitch with the urge to grab his, to clutch his hands for comfort, to sit beside the man and caress his face in an attempt to ward off Death's lingering presence, but his eyes flicker to the door, and Wilson wrenches himself from the bench, from you, to rush to the doctor.

You stand and button your suit—your hands will not stop shaking—as he talks eagerly with the doctor. Wilson clutches the doctor's hand in gratitude, and you can't help but bitterly chuckle. God, what you wouldn't give to be that doctor.

He doesn't turn to look back at you as he follows the doctor to her room, and even though you didn't expect something so forward from him about you, you realize you wish he had looked back, had finished his sentence, had waited a moment longer before leaving you.

You wish you had been brave enough to grab his hands.

You sigh and turn away, reaching for your phone.

You shove these inconvenient longings deep down, away from your mind and heart as much as possible, and begin making the necessary calls.


End file.
